


Avant, OK

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Car Sex, Drug Use, F/M, Hitchhiker, Road Trips, ambient/low-grade Child Abuse, little Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With little explanation, Bro takes 5 year old Dave on a spontaneous trip across the Texas-Oklahoma state line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avant, OK

**Author's Note:**

> Posted a while ago on my tumblr; cross-posting here in lieu of putting up something original for the hell of it.

“Up and at 'em, little dude.”

You're jostled awake by a large gloved hand shaking your shoulder. You blink, disoriented, look around. It's still dark, and desert cold, and you've got a sore-ass kink in your neck. The engine's still running and the ding-ding-ding from the dash to your left tells you your door's open before you realise it yourself. You look up, still blinking, at Bro standing over you. He's got one hand on the open door and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder with the other. 

“C'mon, little bro, out.” 

It's the middle of nowhere, you're pretty sure, and for a moment you're confused. Did he decide it's time for an impromptu Strife? Maybe he's finally stopping to let you pee? You squint up at him questioningly, but his face is stony and unreadable behind his shades. You hear a gasp, and then everything clicks into place as a girl pokes her head around Bro's shoulder. 

“Aw, he's cute!” She's pretty, long brown hair spilling out from under the hood of her oversized sweater and a short skirt that barely makes it past the coat's hem. She's got black hi-tops and white knee highs and she shifts the army green russack she's got slung over one shoulder as she smiles at Bro.  
“Tha'cher little brother?”  
Bro grunts and nods before leaning into the car. He kind of paws at your shoulders, tugs your shirt collar, jostles you as he tries to push you towards him. “C'mon, little dude, yer ridin' back.” 

You grumble a little as you pull yourself out of your seat. Your shoulders are stiff and your legs are numb. Your feet are bare and you stumble a little in the gravel when Bro swats the back of your head and says, “Don't bitch.”  
He reaches behind the shotgun seat and unlocks the back door. Tugging it open, you stagger a little when it gives, still sleep-addled. You have to shove clear a spot for yourself in the back seat. It's mostly bedding and clothes in your way – your mattress, Bro's raggedy-ass futon, and his gear are all packed into the trailer. A pillow gets chucked at you as Bro rummages around clearing out the front seat. It's followed by your shoes, one of them smacking the side of your head. You rub at your temple and have to jerk your leg into the car quickly so it doesn't get caught in the door as Bro slams it shut. The girl gets settled in the front seat, all smiles, and thank yous, and damn, she seems awfully young. She tamps down her russack in front of her feet and slings an arm around the head of her seat to look back at you. 

“What'cher name, sweetie?” She asks. The truce negotiation you've engaged between yourself and the trash bags of clothes over backseat space stops in favour of looking at her. You throw a quick glance towards Bro, sliding in behind the wheel and not looking at you, to decide if you shoulder answer.  
“My name's Dave,” you chance, eyes still fixed on Bro. You know the girl can't see it through your shades anyway. “I'm five – how old are you?”  
The girl laughs and there's tension in it. “Shudnt'cha be askin' a girl's name 'fore ya ask her her age?” You don't answer. Bro's head is cocked almost imperceptibly in the way you know means he's paying attention. She doesn't notice when she glances over at him, though, and her smile is wider, more put-on, when she looks back at you.  
“I'm eighteen, hon,” she says – overloud, defensive – then she reaches back and ruffles your hair. You jerk away from her touch, but she doesn't notice, already ignoring you as she turns back around in her seat, looking at Bro. With one last resounding thunk, the dinging warning of open doors ceases and you hear the crank of Bro shifting gears, the crunch of gravel under tires. 

You bundle your pillow up against the window and wriggle to get comfortable next to the clothing bags. You hear the girl ask, “So where're y'all from?” and Bro grunt, “South.” Outside, overhead, if you tilt your chin back and gaze out the window, you can see the half-full moon, and more stars than you've ever seen in the city. In the distance, the horizon glows with the light of civilization, and you tune out the girl, who's now chattering about herself. 

_ _ _ 

This afternoon Bro got you up at three, startling you awake by yanking the covers off you and tossing Cal at your face. Ignoring your shriek of terror, he told you to get dressed and packed in the next ten minutes. When you walked out into the living room, it was empty, save a few piles of trash. You ran back to your room, Cal clutched under your arm, and saw Bro in there with a trash bag, packing up your sheets and the last of your clothes. He'd chucked the whole thing out the window, then turned to look at you. 

“Help me with this,” he ordered, jerking his head in the direction of your bed. Together, the two of you had wrestled your mattress out the window. The box spring, however, was a different story, and when you'd looked questioningly at Bro, he'd shrugged dismissively and headed back to the window. You'd opened your mouth to ask him what was going on, but then his body had gone rigid and he was leaning out of the apartment.  
“Hey! _Hey!_ Ain't none'a that gonna fit'chu!” The tone of his voice spoke of an impending Strife and you'd squeezed Cal against your chest. “You wanna see how fast I get down there? Yeah, you better run, motherfucker!”  
Just like that, he was gone. You'd gone to the window and looked out. Bro was nowhere to be seen, but you figured out who he'd been yelling at when you saw the teenaged boy bolting down the street with the trash bag full of your clothes. Tucking Cal under one arm, you'd scrabbled out the window, shimmying down the drainpipe like you'd learned from watching Bro. By the time you'd hit the pavement, Bro was coming back up the street. One hand gripped the trash bag, the other was red and wet at the knuckles. He was dead silent, face straight, so you'd decided to hold off on asking him what was up for now. 

He'd thrown the bag in the backseat of the car, already stuffed full of others, and you'd helped him drag your mattress to the trailer, using it to pad the space between the metal futon frame and his board. He was muttering about “motherfuckers can't mind their own goddamn business” as he started the engine, so you'd hunkered down in your seat, wrapping your arms tightly around Cal and resolving to not talk for a while.  
“We're visitin' your Uncle Mike,” was the only response Bro had given when curiosity finally got the better of you as the car left city limits. No explanation of why you'd never heard of this uncle before, or where he lived. You'd resigned yourself to silence and turned to look out the window, watching scrubby trees sail past as the sun began setting and you began to doze off. 

_ _ _ 

The second time you're awoken, it's by Bro smacking his hand against the window. You blink up into the fluorescent overheads of a gas station and realise the car's stopped. Bro gestures to his face with two fingers, then you, then the girl, in the universal sign for “keep a fucking eye on her.” You nod and he turns to walk into the station. A moment later, the girl pops her door open and calls, “Will you git me some Pall Malls?” She gets a thumbs up, casually tossed over Bro's shoulder. The girl gets out and pumps gas while Bro's in the store. You watch her quietly. Not exactly interested, but it's something to do other than stare at the roof of the car, or worry about where Cal's disappeared to. She leans against the car, watching the numbers on the gas pump tick upwards, hands shoved in the front pockets of her hoodie. You can't see her face, but you study her back, wondering how long she'll be around. You wonder if it's her first time out of her apartment too. You wonder if she doesn't have parents either. You catch yourself wondering and decide you don't care. She's not even that cool – even _you're_ cooler than her – so she doesn't really belong here. 

Bro appears out of nowhere, grabbing the girl's waist with a shout, making her jump and shriek. She breaks into breathless laughter as she recovers, hits his arm lightly. You frown and start rummaging for a blanket. There's a sound of something shifting on the roof, then the door opposite you pops open. Bro sticks his head in the back. 

“Here y'go, little dude,” he tosses you a plastic sack. When you dig into it, you find a bag of Cheetos, a bottle of apple juice, a pack of cigarettes, and a small square box. The Cheetos make your stomach growl, reminding you that you haven't eaten since before you left the apartment. The little box perplexes you and you pull it and the cigarettes out of the sack to inspect them. Bro leans back into the car, arranging a half-rack of Corona so it's nestled between the two front seats, behind the stick-shift. “Oh, gimmie that,” he says when he sees you turning the little box over in your fingers. He snatches it and the cigarettes out of your hands. As he shoves the box in his back pocket he tells you to eat your dinner, before straightening up out of the car and swinging the door shut. You watch his torso stretch as he reaches over the roof of the car, hear the muffled sound of him talking, answered by the girl's giggles.  
The front doors open and the two of them slide in. You tune out their conversation, opening your bag of Cheetos noisily. As the car pulls out of the lot, you sort of wonder where Cal's gotten to. There's not a lot of space for him to hide in the car, and when he's been gone this long, the chances of him jumping out of nowhere at you become higher and higher. 

In the front seat, Bro twists the cap off a bottle of beer like it's nothing and the girl makes an impressed noise as he passes it to her. You watch him grab another for himself, twist it open, knees keeping the steering wheel steady. The girl fiddles with the radio, but you're far out enough that all that comes through is static and country. Bro makes a disapproving noise and the girl hums in agreement, switching it off. You lean your temple against the window, shoveling Cheetos into your mouth and watching freeway signs whip past the car. Shortly after you finish off the apple juice, boredom overtakes you and pulls you back down into sleep. 

_ _ _ 

When you wake again, it's still dark. You're cold – you never successfully dug up a blanket – and the car's stopped again. There's a shuffling, shifting sound in the front seat and you hear lowered voices. In a second, panic jolts you awake as you realise they've decided to leave you behind. You hear a soft, questioning phrase that you can't make out, answered by Bro's deeper voice. 

“It's fine, the little man's asleep.” 

You freeze, clutching your pillow, waiting for the sound of the car doors opening and closing; for the crunch of gravel underfoot. Instead, you hear soft laughter, more shifting around in the front seat, a gasp. There's the familiar sound of beer bottles rattling together, the creak of leather on vinyl. A quiet hum and Bro saying something you can't quite hear. The tone of his voice makes you uncomfortable. In the dark, you make out the shape of his hand sliding over the back of the passenger seat, bracing against the headrest, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You don't know why, but you get the feeling you'll be in trouble if Bro finds out you're awake.  
There's movement in the front seat, the girl murmurs something, and you try to will yourself to sleep, but your bladder's decided to remind you that Hey! It does exist! And the last thing you did was drink a whole bottle of apple juice. You squirm a little, pressing your face into your pillow because how in the hell are you supposed to ignore the pressure on your bladder _and_ whatever's going on in the front seat? As if taunting you, you hear the scrape of a zipper and you bite your lower lip, trying to calculate just how much of an ass whooping you'd get if you left the car right now. A sound as if one of them is smacking their lips is followed by Bro saying something unintelligible, his tone teasing, and the crinkle of plastic. There's another shift, another creak, a heavy exhalation of breath. 

The high, stuttering noise the girl makes in the back of her throat and a low grunt from Bro sends your stomach into a sickening lurch and your ability to ignore the urge to pee fucks right off. You fumble with the door handle urgently, the sound of your hands pawing at molded plastic not standing a chance against the girl's short gasps or the hiss of Bro's inhale. The door pops open suddenly, pitching you and your pillow out into the cold night. As you tumble out onto the pavement, you catch a glimpse of the girl's pale, bare thigh angled awkwardly against the front seat. You scramble to your feet, hear the girl whisper a startled, “Oh shit!” hear Bro's deep laugh, and you push the car door closed quickly. A muffled moan issues from inside and the last thing you see is the back of the girl's hand thump against her window, before you turn and stumble down the embankment. You clutch the waist of your pants, ignoring the bite of rocks at your bare feet as you try to find a decent spot to relieve yourself. By the time you're finally undoing your fly, you realise your hands are shaking. 

When you return to the car, you find the windows have fogged up. Any rush of relief that they haven't left you behind is blasted away by the jolt of terror that shoots up your spine at the sight of Cal in the backseat window, grinning out at you. You dart forward, snatch your pillow off the ground, and drop into a huddle against the rear tire. You hope you're out of his line of sight. Knees drawn up to your chest, you clutch the pillow to you and start counting on your fingers. Every now and then you hear the girl moan inside the car, or a thump startles you to look up and make sure Cal's glassy eyes aren't staring down at you. By the time you reach half an hour, your toes and fingers are numb and you're shivering. You hear the thunk of the car door, followed by the crunch of Bro's boots in the gravel. You look up to see him coming around the back of the car, stepping over the trailer hitch, tucking his shirt back into his pants. The moon's almost set, but the last of its light reflects off his shades. 

“You comin' or what?”  
You look up at the backseat window. Cal's disappeared again. Teeth chattering, you look back up at Bro and nod.  
“Well, get a move on.” 

You watch Bro head back the way he came, watch him lift his baseball cap, smooth one hand over his hair, fix the cap back in place. The driver's door clicks open and you push yourself to your feet quickly, steadying yourself against the car. On numb feet, you stagger to the back door and tug it open. The girl's got her window half rolled down and is in the front seat smoking. You crawl in behind her and pull the door shut as the engine rumbles to life. With a cursory scan for Cal's whereabouts, you settle into your seat, wiping your running nose on your bare arm with a sniff. In front of you, the girl flicks her cigarette butt out into the darkness and rolls up her window. 

_ _ _ 

The last time you wake up, it's in daylight. Bro's rapping his knuckles against your window and when you look up, you hear his muffled voice through the glass. 

“C'mon, little dude.” 

You yawn and stretch and god _damn_ your neck is stiff. Satisfied you're awake, Bro circles the front of the car. You peer out the window at flat, dry fields. The car's parked on a swath of beaten-down dirt lot and a little ways ahead is a small ranch house. In the distance you see the dark shapes of a few grazing horses. 

Muffled voices sound outside the car. The passenger door opens and you scowl, expecting to see Hoodie Girl. Instead, a man probably Bro's age sticks his head in. He's wiry, with a long nose and hooded, dark-ringed eyes. His frizzy brown hair is cropped short and he's got a scrubbly, not-quite-goatee clinging to his chin. When his face cracks into a smile, he lets out more of a cackle than an actual laugh. 

“Fuckin' Christ, man!” his voice isn't much deeper than Bro's, but it's definitely scratchier. “You been up since yesterday _and_ you ploughed through all'a these?”  
Bro's head pops in the driver's side with a “What?” The clink of empty beer bottles is followed by his chuckle. You try not to think about last night. You fail.  
“Ah, nah, dude,” Bro and his friend begin cleaning out the front seat. “Man, you oughtta _seen_ this bitch last night, bro.”  
The friend snickers an “oh yeah?” as Bro keeps going. “Middle'a the night and there she is just outside'a Sherman, hitchin' all by her lonesome. Couldn'ta been more'n fifteen, sixteen. Had that whole burusera thing goin'.”  
“Bew-rew-whata?”  
“Schoolgirls, man! Knee-highs, short skirt – shit, only thing missin' was the fuckin' pigtails. So cold last night, y'could see her titties all hard through her hoodie.”  
The other man lets out another cackle as the two of them head up to the house. Their voices fade out of earshot and you breathe a sigh of relief. So the girl's gone. Just you and Bro again, and things are mostly back to normal. You do kinda wonder when you'll get to go back to the apartment though. 

With another yawn, you pop the car door and slide out. The dirt is still a little cool beneath your feet and you know, instinctively, that it's a quarter past seven. Stretching and pushing your shades up to rub your eyes, you jump when Bro's voice rings out across the lot. 

“Yo, Dave!” He's leaning halfway out of the house, propping the screen door open. “Grab some shit and make yerself fuckin' useful!” 

You finish rubbing your face, nodding before turning back to the car and clambering into the backseat. You push your pillow out of the way, keeping a wary eye out for Cal. Satisfied that the coast is clear, you start shoving the trash bags around, pushing them out behind you so they fall in a little pile next to the car. You hop down onto them, slide a little sideways, fall on your butt in the dirt. Each one is stuffed a little too full for you to lift, so you grab the top one and drag it up towards the house. Bro's still holding the screen door open when you get to the porch, but he's not looking at you. 

“...Ten in the fuckin' mornin' they're hammerin' on the fuckin' door,” his friend's in the front room and Bro's leaning in the door talking to him. “I told 'em they could go fuck themselves without a warrant – that got 'em all hot, talkin' 'bout they were gonna get CPS crawlin' up my ass 'n' shit.”  
“Shit,” the other man echoes, long and drawn out. He passes you, handing Bro what looks like a hand-rolled cigarette. The front room's messy and smells like Bro's room in the apartment sometimes does. “Who'dja think got them all stirred up?”  
“Fuck, man, I dunno.” You drag the trash bag over to one end of the sagging, beaten-up couch. “One'a the fuckin' neighbours prob'ly got their panties in a fuckin' twist over him screamin' his head off 'bout somethin' stupid. Little shit's a yowler when you get 'im riled.” 

A flush of embarrassment burns to the tips of your ears and you drop your gaze to the floor as you head back to the front door, shoulders hunched up tight.  
“Dude, he better not scare the horses,” the other man says warily, and you wish you could melt away into the floor.  
“Nah, man,” Bro's voice is tight when he talks, like he's holding his breath. “He's chill most the time.” 

Just like that, the warmth in your face drops down into your chest. Above you, you hear Bro exhale heavily, and you risk a small smile, knowing he probably can't see it from this angle. You pass him on the way out the door and he grabs the back of your collar, making you jerk to a stop. 

“Hey, little dude,” he drags you back into the house, voice friendly. “Say 'hi' to your Uncle Mike like y'got some fuckin' manners.”  
The other man cackles. You look up into a cloud of smoke, see Bro pass the rolled-up cigarette back to him.  
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” he says, still laughing. “I ain't the one that grew a fuckin' boner fer kids. Don't git 'im callin' me that!” 

You stare at the other man – Uncle Mike – quietly, Bro laughing a little behind you. The cigarette thing changes hands again and you're not sure if you should actually say anything. Bro smacks the back of your head. 

“Say 'hi,' little dude.”  
You say “hi” automatically, softly. The other man grins down at you as Bro takes a long drag off the cigarette.  
“Hey there, little man,” he answers, and the smoke that billows into your face makes you wrinkle your nose. “Uncle Mike” laughs, ruffling your hair. Goddamn, you hate that. Bro swats your head again. You turn and look up at him.  
“Car ain't gonna unpack itself, kiddo,” he tells you. You nod, heading out onto the porch. When you hit the dirt, Mike calls out after you, “Don't go near the horses!”  
You look back. They're both standing in the doorway, trading the cigarette thing back and forth. Bro's cracked half a smile that really looks more like a sneer.  
“Yeah,” he adds, “you get kicked, it's your own dumbass fault.” 

You nod again, turning to trot over to the car. 

_ _ _ 

Half an hour later, the car's unpacked and you're flopped on the couch. Bro and Mike haven't bothered to get anything out of the trailer, other than haul the futon into the living room. It seems like, at least for now, it's going to stay that way. It gives you hope that you'll be going back to the apartment soon.  
Your arms are tired from dragging trash bags, but you know Bro's probably gonna want to start training soon. He and Mike have disappeared somewhere in the house and you don't really have the energy to look for them. There's a heavy haze of smoke still settled in the front room and you feel sleepy. 

A low, half-whispered, “Dude, check this out,” behind you is all the warning you get before Cal pops over your shoulder, his high-pitched laugh ringing in your ears. You shriek, pitch yourself forward off the couch. You try to run for the adjoining kitchen, but he's there, laughing at you from the counter, so you turn heel and run down the hallway. Under your terrified wail, Bro's raucous laughter sounds from the front room, accompanied by the wheezing cackle of his friend. You wrench the knob of the first door you crash into. 

“Dude! Not the fuckin' grow room!” Mike's voice barks from a distance, and then Cal springs up in front of you and you're wrenched back. As you fall, you see Bro's legs standing over you. Your head hits the floor, then, and you stop seeing anything entirely.  
When you wake up, it's 4:36 in the afternoon. Bro's laying next to you on the futon, out cold. You roll over, sidle up against his arm and, satisfied he won't wake up, doze back off to sleep.


End file.
